Swept off her feet
by actually-i-prefer-highwaymen
Summary: A short 1897 story. An alternate version of Quentin's zombie adventure.


Swept off her Feet: An alternate version of Quentin's zombie adventure.

"Barnabas?" Rachel called as she stepped out into the cold night air. There was a sound behind her and she turned, only to see the lurching figure of Quentin Collins. She screamed. He reached out for her, and she fainted. Lifting her effortlessly into his strong arms, he carried her away. The grass, wet with dew crunched beneath his feet and the wind blew back his hair, but he could not feel it. Quentin Collins was a zombie, a dead creature brought back to some form of life. He was soulless, mindless, following only the voice he heard in his mind.

It was a woman's voice, with a musical quality and found himself wanting to follow her every command. They were far from the house now, deeper and deeper into the forest he carried her.

Finally they came to a clearing. It was the old cemetery, the ancient headstones were worn and crumbled. She awoke as he carried her toward the freshly unearthed grave. A coffin lay open, his coffin. She was wide awake as he started to lower her into it.

She struggled, hitting him with all her might. But it was to no avail, his new state seemed to give him almost superhuman strength. He climbed into the grave with her, what was he going to do? His blank, soulless eyes stared into her large terrified ones and she screamed. His large, cold hands held her down to the soft lining of the casket. Then he did something that surprised her, he touched his ice cold lips to hers. They grew warmer, and traveled to her jaw, her neck. She stilled, terrified. His caresses were not harsh, nor were they forceful. Though he had no human emotion, he was almost...gentle with her. Yes, this strange, terrifying creature was gentle. Like a lover.

His once cold and clammy flesh became flushed and warm as he held her. His eyes held a fire, intense and beautiful. His fingers splayed over her stomach, seeking. He touched her, and though her nightdress covered her, she felt his touch as though it were on her naked skin. Her once taut body relaxed under him, and she let him explore her. No man had ever made her feel the way he was making her feel now, but then, he was no longer a man. Or was he?

He felt like a strong, solid man. Muscles firm and strong. He was lean, but he was strong. He smelled not of death, but of sweat and soap and wind. He was not rotting flesh as a corpse should be. How could he be dead when he felt so gloriously alive? When she felt the hardness of him pressing against her she knew that he could be nothing of the creature he appeared to be. She was no virgin, unfortunately. No, another had seen to that. Yet, she was somehow glad she was not. This moment should not be marred by pain. There should be no fears, no hesitation. Yet even if she had hesitated, had refused, she knew it would not stop him. He had a goal, and he would reach it. He would force her if she hadn't complied. But she did. For his touch was not one to be feared. He brought her senses to life, here in this lonely last resting place. Here, surrounded by those long dead, she felt alive and vibrant.

When he entered her she clung to him. Driving him deeper, behaving like a wanton and yet she did not care. They were one. With his deep, masterful strokes he brought her to a frenzy. An unfathomable height of passion. She cried out as he brought her to the brink and over. He made not a sound as he spilled his seed inside of her, and just as quietly withdrew. Then he was leaving, his body left hers. She lay back to catch her breath. He deftly rearranged his clothing, and gave a long last long. Then he did something she never would have expected. He began to close the lid.

Stunned momentarily into silence, she could only watch. And then, before the could move, the lid closed over her. She screamed and pounded with her fists, but he did not hear her as he filled in the grave. She heard the dirt as it hit over her head, and she sobbed. When the grave was filled and the dirt smoothed over, he left the site. He walked through the dark woods toward the cottage and opened the door. There stood the woman who's voice he heard in his head. "Is it done?" she asked softly. He gave a curt nod and walked back toward the great house. In the morning he would awaken alive again. He would remember nothing. She laughed and rubbed her hands with glee. Her Barnabas would not have his Josette. Now she would know what Angelique herself had gone through so many years before. To be loved and then tossed aside. Angelique had her revenge on Josette.


End file.
